Voice Mail Murder Part 13

"Did he pay you?"

"Pay me?"

"You know, did he give you money afterwards?"

"No!" she screamed. "Detective, whatever you think of me, I'm no prost.i.tute. I really cared for Coach. I can't believe he's gone. I didn't want his money."

"Did your son-Ricky-did he know about all this?"

"Oh no," she said. "That was one of my fears-that Ricky would find out. He worships Coach. This is going to crush him. He's already heart-broken about Coach's death-his murder. Just sick. Now, to find out that his mother was involved with. . . oh, it's just too awful!" She placed both hands on her temples and dropped her head to her lap. "How could I have done this to him?"

"Mrs. Terlinger," asked Shoop, "to your knowledge, were you the only woman the Coach was involved with?"

"I thought I was the only one, but now I don't know," she said. "Coach felt guilty about our relationship-his sick wife and all. He really loves her, but. . . ."

"So, the Coach never had relationships with any other women to your knowledge?"

"No, Detective! I'm sure he didn't!" She looked up adamantly, the tears in her eyes drying suddenly.

"What do you suppose the Coach was doing in that motel room the day he was murdered?" asked Shoop. "He wasn't there to meet you, was he?"

"No," said Charlene Terlinger. "I don't know. I don't think we were supposed to meet that day." She continued to cry and Pamela was flabbergasted that the woman was oblivious to her lover's deceit. Either that or she was simply too dim-witted to figure out that she wasn't his only mistress.

Shoop continued to question the grief-stricken woman for a while longer. Eventually, satisfied apparently that she was telling the truth, he allowed her to leave with the admonition that she not discuss her situation with anyone else and that she contact him if she remembered anything at all that might be connected to the Coach or his murder. Charlene Terlinger agreed and Officer Sikes drove her home.

"Is she telling the truth?" asked Shoop after Charlene had departed. Pamela, now comfortably ensconced on Shoop's uncomfortable divan, perked up.

"She exhibited no vocal signals that I would read as deceptive," she said, "but I told you, Detective, that those signals are only to be used as guidelines-not absolutes. Otherwise, no one would ever be able to lie to me." She smiled benignly at the man. She was too tired to spar with him now. All she wanted was to go home to her husband, a hot meal, and a warm bed.

"I can't imagine anyone lying to you, Dr. Barnes," snickered Shoop. Pamela realized that sarcasm was Shoop's most endearing quality. "Why don't we try one more before we call it a night?"

"Why not?" she shrugged.

Shoop ran his finger down the team roster list and selected a home phone number, which he placed on the landline phone on his desk. He hit the microphone b.u.t.ton and the sound of dialing filled the room. Almost as soon, a male voice answered the phone.

"Prescotts."

"Mr. Prescott?"

"Yes," the gruff, obviously tired voice replied, "what do you want?"

"I'm calling about your son's football coach. . . ."

"This is about Jeremy?" said the voice on the speaker.

"Yes, sir. Jeremy Prescott. On the Grace University Football team."

"Is Jeremy okay?"

"Yes, sir," continued Shoop, "this is Detective Shoop from the Reardon Police Department. You may have heard that Coach Croft. . . ."

"Yes, I heard. Murdered, wasn't he? Jeremy told us." Then his voice was m.u.f.fled as he could be heard speaking to someone in the background. "Abigail, it's about Jeremy's football coach. That Croft fellow. The one who was murdered." There was more m.u.f.fled discussion and a female voice came on the line.

"Detective," said an elegant-sounding female voice-and one that Pamela instantly recognized. "What is this about Coach Croft? Is Jeremy involved? What is going on?"

Shoop glanced over at Pamela who nodded in agreement. It was clear that Shoop also recognized the woman's voice.

"Ma'am -" began Shoop. Pamela was curious how he was going to broach this topic to her over the phone with her husband hanging in the background. Care would have to be taken as they didn't want two murders on their hands.

"Yes, Detective?"

"Ma'am," said Shoop. "This actually doesn't concern Jeremy at all. We're calling all the parents of Coach Croft's team to enlist their help in tracking down a woman who left a message on Coach Croft's cell phone. This woman may or may not be a suspect in the Coach's death. We don't know, but we need to question her." The wife's sudden intake of breath was audible.

"And you think I might . . . know this woman?" Abigail Prescott asked carefully. How much of this conversation can her husband hear, wondered Pamela. Pamela felt from the sound of the woman's voice that she knew exactly what they knew.

"It's possible. When did you last . . . see the Coach?"

"I . . . I believe I . . . saw him when the team was here last February. They played an away game just outside of Boston where we live. It was wonderful because we got a chance to see Jeremy again. "

"And you saw the Coach then?"

"I believe we may have . . . spoken to each other then-after the game."

"Ma'am, it would be very helpful, if you could think of anything you . . . noticed about the coach at that time that might a.s.sist us . . . if you would call us."

"Yes, Detective," said Abigail Prescott. "I can't . . . think of anything right now, but if I think of anything . . . later, I will certainly call you."

After providing the Bostonian matron with his contact information, Shoop hung up the phone. As Pamela suspected, Shoop had also immediately recognized the proper high-bred lilt of Abigail's voice.

"Do you think she'll call back when the husband isn't around?" he asked. "What did her voice tell you?"

"I'm guessing she will-when the husband isn't hanging over her shoulder."

"Husbands do cramp a woman's style, don't they?" he asked slyly.

"You would know," she tossed back at him as she left his office. "I, however, am thoroughly happy to be heading home to mine." She gave him a jaunty wave, much jauntier than she felt, and trudged out.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

How fast had she fallen asleep? It probably really didn't even require Rocky's special milk ambrosia that he had concocted for her along with a nice bowl of his minestrone. What was in it? Surely not alcohol, because she didn't feel tipsy; she just felt blissfully floating. Floating on water, like a very calm ocean-maybe the Caribbean. It felt good. Warm, soft, gently rocking her.

It was almost possible to forget about the hectic day she'd just spent or the horrific events of the last week. It was wonderful to experience this relaxing sensation-like a vacation. She felt the waves lapping at her feet, pulling gently at her sides, but still allowing her to sleep, to rest. She could see-well, maybe not see-creatures floating by. Fish? Maybe. Large creatures, coming closer. One looked very much like-Shoop! One looked like Shoop. Yes, there he was standing up on some sort of surf-board, his long, grey trench coat flapping in the tropical breeze. And the man was barefoot! What! she thought. Shoop would never walk around barefoot. Oh, it was a dream, she remembered.

It was Shoop, all right. He was motioning to her, his face frozen in that infuriating smirk of his. She couldn't help but laugh as she glanced down at his shoeless feet. He had his pant legs rolled up, supposedly, she presumed, to keep them dry, but that wasn't going to happen. He was drenched. Still, he beckoned her-wherever she was. She wasn't sure. But he was looking right at her. She could hear music-like that tinkling island marimba band music playing in the distance. Shoop did a leap in the air and he and his surf-board flipped around and headed out into open waters, overcoat flying in the breeze. She followed-she didn't know quite how.

Shoop twisted and turned over one wave crest after another. When they had reached a point far from-where would it be far from? She wondered. When they had reached wherever Shoop intended, he did a huge spring in the air and dove, surf-board and all, straight down in the ocean. Now how did he do that? Why would he do that? She followed, foolishly, she thought. I don't have a snorkel, she was thinking. Shoop doesn't have a snorkel. Stop this, Pamela. It's a dream. Go with it! Shoop glided on his board underwater, leading Pamela around various coral structures until they finally reached the opening of an underground cave. Shoop sped through the entrance.

I guess he wants me to follow him, she thought languidly. Not really wanting to venture into a dark cave, and enjoying the beauty of the undersea landscape, she hesitated. Shoop suddenly appeared at the cave entrance waving at her frantically. She entered the dark, foreboding waters of the underground cave. Everywhere she looked, strange creatures glided past her, some coming within inches of her face. Yet, she felt strangely calm and safe. She could see Shoop ahead in a somewhat lighted area. The area was an indentation in the sandy floor. Here discarded objects from above had acc.u.mulated. In the center of a pile of detritus was a dilapidated old bed frame, including the box springs and even a mattress, its tufting now water logged. As Pamela looked down, another object beside the mattress came into view-the body of a man lying face down.

Shoop swam to the body and pulled the mattress off the bed frame. Pamela moved closer. She could see a shiny object-red and silver. It was new although how it could have been there hidden under this bed and still be new she didn't know . She reached out in her dream to grab the object and the man on the ocean floor grabbed her leg. She could feel his hand on her flesh in her dream. The calm, relaxing quality of her lovely dream was morphing into a nightmare. She felt herself twisting and turning in her sleep. In her dream, she dropped the object and pulled away from the dead body's grasp.

Just as she pulled back, a group of football players, all in uniform, and all wearing cleats, stormed through the water like an underwater ballet. In formation, they crossed over the body and stepped on his back with their cleats. As each cleat punctured the man's skin, a geyser of blood spurted into the surrounding water, taking the surrounding liquid from clear to murky almost instantly. The team of men seemed oblivious to the body that they were stepping on; they moved with graceful precision and uniformity. When all of the men had crossed the man's torso, Shoop reached down and picked up the shiny red and silver object and swam back to her. It was not the cell phone that she a.s.sumed it would be. It was the remote control to their living room television set. Shoop handed her the device. She clicked it on and Rocky suddenly appeared on a screen above the antique bed. His head was swimming on the water screen like that of the Wizard in Oz.

"Pamela," Rocky intoned from high above them, "What are you doing down here?"

She felt guilty. How would she explain to Rocky what she was doing underwater in the South Caribbean with Shoop? How would she explain what she was doing with a dead body and a team of football players in a motel room? This was her worst nightmare. This was a nightmare.

"I can explain," she cried out in her dream. "I can explain, Rocky!" Shoop just laughed as she reached out to the large Rocky head on the screen above them. Suddenly, Shoop took the red and silver remote and pressed the b.u.t.ton and Rocky disappeared, screen and all. But Shoop evidently had other goodies to show her. He flapped his overcoat in the water again and headed off on his surfboard. She followed because she didn't know what else to do.

Around a coral reef, Shoop stopped and motioned for her to stop. In the distance they could see a group of fish-or something-coming towards them. Shoop motioned for her to hide behind the reef. She crouched down behind him. Soon, it became apparent what the creatures were a troop of mermaids. At least, she a.s.sumed they were mermaids. They had fish bottoms and human tops. She and Shoop watched as the mermaids-at least a dozen of them-gathered around the body of the man on the ocean floor.

This is ridiculous, she thought. I can't get away from this case, even in my dreams. She watched helplessly as the group of strange mer-creatures knelt before the man. One stroked his head. One took his hand and squeezed it. All of them looked miserable and sad. Eventually, one of the creatures indicated to the others that they should take the man, and all of the mermaids gathered together and lifted him. Moving the large man underwater would have been difficult for a group of men, but it was almost impossible for a group of women-especially women with no legs to stand on. However, working together, the band of fish women eventually managed to lift the man and carry him away.

When they had disappeared, Shoop waved to her to follow him and he swam upwards. She could feel the water temperature starting to rise. As they reached the surface of the water, she relished how much warmer it was above than below in the murky depths where Shoop had shown her the body. Now Shoop was . . . . Wait a minute. Where had Shoop gone? She glanced around the surface of the tropical island where Shoop had deposited her, but the man in the overcoat was nowhere to be seen. She felt herself relax on the warm sand of a beach, the waves gently nipping at her toes. The sunlight warmed her. The waves at her toes tickled. They tickled. Stop that.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in her own bed. It was morning and sunlight was streaming into her bedroom window. She had thrown off her comforter and Candide was at the foot of her bed nibbling on her feet.

Yawning luxuriously, she grabbed her little poodle and squeezed him tight.

"So it's you tickling my toes, Candide!" she said to the dog. "And I thought I was on vacation."

"Are you up?" yelled Rocky from their kitchen. "I thought I heard you."

"You did," she called back. "Talking to my buddy!"

Rocky rounded the corner of their bedroom and plopped down beside her. "I thought I was your buddy."

"You're more than just a buddy," she responded, reaching out to nuzzle his unshaven face. "What did you put in that milk drink you poured down me last night?"

"Why? Didn't it set well with your stomach?" he answered, standing and heading for the bathroom.

"No," she replied. "It gave me the strangest dream!"

He popped his head back into their bedroom. "How strange?" he asked with a leer.

"Not that kind of strange," she said. "Alice in Wonderland kind of strange."

"Oh, you mean, you think I put some sort of hallucinogen in it."

"I dreamt that Shoop took me for an underwater adventure complete with a dead body, an entire football team, and a troop-is it troop?-of mermaids."

"Sounds like you're trying to solve that coach's murder in your sleep," said Rocky, now starting his morning shaving ritual. He came back to the bed where she was still reclining. His face was covered with shaving cream.

"Ooo, you look all whipped creamy!" she exclaimed as he sat next to her on the bed.

"Now why couldn't you have said that last night and not this morning when I have forty minutes to get to cla.s.s?" He headed back to the sink and started in on his left cheek.

"Sorry," she pouted. "Yesterday was a marathon. I p.o.o.ped out on you."

"Do you feel rested?" he asked in an altered voice as he ran the razor around his upper lip.

"Actually, I feel fantastic!" She stretched cat-like and smiled.

"Then the milk ambrosia worked," he concluded, rubbing toner briskly onto his face. "Weird dreams must just be one of its side effects."

"I guess," she agreed. "But don't lose that recipe." She smiled and leaned back on the headboard. Her lethargy was interrupted by the jarring ring of the bedside telephone. "Barnes' residence," she answered.

"Dr. Barnes," intoned the familiar voice of Detective Shoop, "I see you're awake."

"Detective," she replied, as Rocky sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his trousers, "it seems like only yesterday. Oh, wait a minute, it was only yesterday." She yawned.

"We've run into a glitch in questioning the mothers of the team members," he informed her.

"How so?" she asked, "You couldn't find the third speaker?"

"Oh, we found her all right," he snarled, "but so did our killer. She's dead."

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Shoop had informed her that they'd discovered Skye Davis's body on the ground next to her Lexus, outside of her real estate office in a trendy section of Reardon. The woman had been stabbed in the back with an instrument that appeared similar, if not identical to, the one that had caused the death of Coach Croft. Pamela learned that Skye Davis was a forty-two year old single mother who had climbed her way to the top of her profession through hard work and determination and was considered one of the top five agents in the area. Her son, Demetrius, was the team's star running back. She had given birth to the boy when she was twenty and since then had single-handed turned her life around and never looked back. Now that life was over-thanks to a fling with the local football coach.

Pamela mused with some trepidation how strangely this whole murder investigation was developing as she entered Blake Hall the next morning. As she strode down the old hallway to the Psychology Department's main office, she couldn't help but remember her involvement with the investigation of another campus murder victim-Charlotte Clark of their own department. Charlotte's old office was on the right as she walked by. Now, a new professor, Derrick Sumpter, had replaced Charlotte and taken up residence in her office. The new guy was not in today. Pamela continued on down the hallway to the main office where she found Laura Delmondo standing in the doorway. The young woman glanced up as Pamela entered.

"Did you enjoy the game, Dr. Barnes?" she asked.

Pamela halted, grasping Laura's arm, "Actually, Laura, don't tell anyone," she whispered, "but it was my first football game!"

"No!" exclaimed Laura. "I never miss one. Vito tries to come with me too, but we can't always get a babysitter."

"Don't worry," suggested Pamela, "that baby will be old enough to join the team soon enough!"

"Never!" exclaimed Laura, shaking her hands back and forth. "Too dangerous!"